


Not Entirely Futile

by methylviolet10b



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen, Prompt Fic, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-06
Updated: 2013-07-06
Packaged: 2017-12-17 22:25:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/872646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The clearing hospital needs help, but he's not sure the old doctor who's just been assigned is up for the job.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Entirely Futile

**Author's Note:**

> Written for JWP #6:  
> JWP #6: [Futility, by Wilfred Owen](http://www.englishverse.com/poems/futility). Click the link to read the poem, if you haven't already.  
> 

  
  
  
I didn’t think much of the new man when he joined our staff at the clearing hospital. God knew that we needed help, but _competent_ help, not yet another problem to manage. We’ve more than enough of those already, thank you.  
  
The old fellows are often as much trouble, if not more so, than the green young doctors straight from the teaching hospitals. At least the young ones have modern ideas about medicine and hygiene, and a few days dealing with a sudden influx of casualties from battle puts paid to any cocky overconfidence they might hold about knowing it all. It knocks the attitude right out of them, and then they learn quickly after that, those that have the nerve for the work.  Those that don’t – well, that shows pretty quickly too, and then it’s just a matter of finding work they can stand, or reassigning them to one of the casualty trains.  
  
The old ones, though. Occasionally they’re the best blessing you could ask for: unflappable, experienced, and with surprising reserves of endurance, for they know their limits and how to conserve themselves, unlike the younger men. But other times, too often, they’re a curse and no mistake. The bad ones are too set in their ways, too inflexible, not to mention entirely backwards in their thinking. They understand the concept of chain of command, but many have spent too many years answering to no one to ever really accept another man’s authority over ‘their’ patients, no matter what the insignia on that man’s sleeve. Worst of all, they’re not as predictable. You can never tell when one might break under the strain of what we do here.  
  
So I had less than sanguine thoughts about the new doctor when I saw him limp into what passed for my office. He was not only old, but battered besides; grey and grizzled, with a noticeable limp and a stiff way of holding his shoulder. But he saluted me properly enough, and listened attentively when I spoke to him, which was all to the good, and he asked intelligent questions, which was even better.  
  
He didn’t have much time to settle in. Less than two days after his arrival, the intermittent thunder of artillery turned into a constant roar, and we were inundated with casualties. In the chaos, I had neither time nor attention to spare to keep track of the new man, but afterwards, I heard good reports of him. He evidently had a keen eye and good head for triage, and although he did not operate with speed, his methodology appeared sound, and he was not above taking a tip or two from his fellow doctors. Nor did the conditions appear to faze him at all; neither the crowding, nor the relentless pounding of the guns, nor the weather elicited any complaints that anyone overheard (or was willing to report to me, and you’d be amazed how frequently people do see fit to mention these things).  
  
This was a relief, and I gladly let the worst of my worries about him fade to the back of my mind. Nonetheless, I kept an eye out; it is part and parcel of my duties. So I noticed that every so often, this new doctor would get a strange reaction from one of the men. They’d react almost as if he was some kind of famous person, although he himself never put on airs, and indeed seemed to dissuade those who reacted that way from expressions of admiration or anything of that sort.  
  
I was curious enough about it to mention it to the chief surgeon, who looked at me oddly. “Ah. Well, sir, he’s written some stories, even had them collected into books.”  
  
I wondered briefly if the powers that be hadn’t accidentally sent me some sort of specialist. “Medical books?”  
  
“No. You’d probably call them popular biography.”  
  
I frowned. “Sensationalist sort of stuff?”  
  
For some reason that made the chief smile. “No, not really. You might say they’re recountings of intellectual problems and matters of law.”  
  
If his writings were neither medically useful, nor morally objectionable, then I had no need to know more. I nodded and changed the subject.  
  
The matter lurked in the recesses of my memory, however, and I found myself making opportunities to observe the doctor at his work during the next lull in activity. That was what led me to overhear him talking quietly with one of the lads in the ward, the one we usually used for non-urgent care and shell-shock cases. The boy in the bed was one of the latter type, a genuine case of neurasthenia, jumpy, pale, and too thin. Just now he seemed a little calmer, although his hands shook badly as he fiddled with a pencil. His eyes never left the doctor’s as he skimmed the contents of a small paper notebook.  
  
The doctor finished reading and handed the notebook to the patient with a smile. “I think it has promise. Does it help?”  
  
“Y-y-yes,” the soldier stammered, his shaky speech another sign of the shock on his nerves. “Y-you mightn’t th-think so, but it does s-seem to help.” He swallowed.  
  
“Then by all means, keep on writing,” the doctor counseled. “It can be a great relief, I know. Sometimes just writing things down on the page helps make them real, more understandable.” A wistful look passed over his face. “And if you do not make a record of the events you witnessed, who will? Otherwise they will be lost to time.”  
  
“Exactly!” the soldier responded in a hoarse whisper, collapsing back against his pillows. “Y-you understand.”  
  
“I do indeed.”  
  
Briefly, I wondered why. What could have been so extraordinary in this creaky old doctor’s life that was worth writing about?  
  
Then I reminded myself that it was none of my business, and went on my way.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted July 6, 2013. Wilfred Owen was a British soldier and poet in World War I. Like many of the soldiers (and poets), he suffered from shell-shock at one point and was treated for it. Owen returned to the front, continued to write poetry, and was killed in action one week before the armistice was signed.

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